


Sauerkraut

by plumedy



Category: Back to the Future (Movies), Back to the Future: The Game
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Food, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 14:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11899302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumedy/pseuds/plumedy
Summary: Doc decides to do some cooking.





	Sauerkraut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsHorowietzky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHorowietzky/gifts).



Doc's inventions, among which many served infinitely creative and infinitely bizarre purposes, were somehow never directed at solving the problem of household chores. Sometimes, like any teenager, Marty thought it rather a shame that no machine would do his cleaning or organize his notebooks; at other times he was tempted to ask Doc for one but invariably decided against it. Doc wouldn't refuse him - on the contrary, he would be enthusiastic to help. Perhaps _too_ enthusiastic, thought Marty. He considered the peculiarities of Doc's creative process and found himself glad that American households were not being overrun by sentient hybrid cooker-vacuums fuelled by pure uranium-238.  
  
In truth, no invention, sentient or otherwise, could dispel Marty's particular distaste for home cooking. Grabbing a soda from a local shop and hastily stuffing a sandwich or two into his mouth while paying special attention to bits of unruly lettuce was as enjoyable as proper dinners were annoying. Marty would always much rather have practiced his guitar for an hour than spent that hour at the dinner table, and he'd come to assume that the same was true for Doc. Surely his friend's incredible brain had little room for such mundane things as scrambled eggs and baked beans!  
  
This was not, as it turned out, quite right.  
  
"What do you mean, you're going to cook?" Marty asked incredulously, and shrugged a little to make his position less uncomfortable. He was trying to put on a sock while balancing on one leg, the phone squeezed between his ear and his shoulder. "Is this some sort of chemical experiment, Doc?"  
  
"No chemistry beyond basic protein denaturation is involved," promised Doc. His voice crackled warmly in the receiver. "It'll be the plainest dinner imaginable. Einstein and I would be very glad if you came, Marty."  
  
Marty dearly hoped that the inclusion of Einie in that invitation didn't mean that dog food would be on the menu. But all he said was, "Of course, Doc. I'll be there, over."  
  
It was a nice clear day, tolerably warm for November. The well-scratched painted wood of Marty's skateboard felt good in his hands when he pressed a goodbye kiss to his mom's puffy cheek and ran out of the door.  
  
Was today special somehow? An anniversary he was supposed to know? He raked his brain for clues but came up blank. Marty was forced to conclude, rather unsatisfactorily, that Doc had simply decided to throw a dinner party on a whim, which was, of course, a thoroughly un-Doc idea.  
  
But he felt, as he returned to these thoughts during the school day, that he was excited about the prospect. Nothing that involved Doc could possibly be plain, and Marty found that he was willing to brave even the potential risk of food poisoning to find out what Doc's cookery was like.  
  
When he rang Doc's doorbell that evening, Doc himself answered the door.  
  
"Heavy," Marty could only say. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten any other adjectives existed.  
  
Nothing was burning. No chemical spills threatened to corrode his Nikes. The air in Doc's garage, normally imbued with plastic and resin, smelled straight up appetizing. Einie, who came out to greet the visitor, wore a collar with an unexpectedly dashing bowtie, and Doc himself had a kitchen apron on that was, upon closer inspection, patterned with forget-me-nots.  
  
Marty somehow found his wildest expectations at once disappointed and exceeded beyond measure. He raised his right hand and gave the back of his neck a long thoughtful rub.  
  
"Nice outfit, Doc," he said. Doc grinned a little sheepishly.  
  
"Come on in, then."  
  
Marty stepped over a couple of large metal propellers and walked towards Doc's working table, which had been, as he noticed, meticulously dusted off. Einstein, clearly ecstatic to show Marty the unexpected changes in his home, barked and leapt around. He was looking with particular longing at the tray steaming in the middle of the table.  
  
Marty prodded the tray wonderingly.  
  
"You've made burritos," stated he, scooping up one of the soft tortilla cylinders. Then he took an experimental bite and a mix of complex emotions reflected on his face. "With... pickled cabbage?"  
  
"Sauerkraut," Doc proclaimed, looking as proud and anxious as if he were showing off his newest scientific invention. Then again, Marty reflected, perhaps he was. Sauerkraut burritos were an innovation all right, and somehow he doubted there was a competing patent.  
  
The sauerkraut was mixed with egg fried rice, corn, and cheese. Marty bit off a few more generous chunks of burrito and chewed for a good while, his expression that of a wine taster confronted with an unconventional variety of Bordeaux.  
  
"You should do this more," he pronounced his verdict somewhat indistinctly through the rice. Doc's bony face blossomed into a delighted smile, and he came closer and sat beside Marty on the couch.  
  
"I was afraid you wouldn't like it," he confessed. "It's a bit unusual."  
  
"I love it," reassured Marty, and immediately proved his statement by shoving the rest of the burrito into his mouth. "Where did you get the idea?"  
  
"Pop taught me how to cook." Doc's hand absently stroked the top of Einstein's head, and Einstein's tail thumped happily against the floor. "A dish has not yet been invented that the man didn't have a sauerkraut-related idea about."  
  
Marty made a curious mmhm? sound. He thought of his family the way they used to be - the way he'd known them all his life. He couldn't imagine his father teaching him anything of the sort. The McFly household wasn't inventive with their cooking, and the primary dinner seasoning was stale family drama.  
  
"We had a difficult relationship before," explained Doc, scratching Einstein behind the ear. He looked at Marty a little strangely. "Someone important in my life inspired me to persevere with my scientific endeavours, and Pop wasn't keen on the thought. But we came to an understanding later on. Teaching me how to cook was his attempt at making me more pragmatic, I suppose."  
  
"Sounds like good times to me," remarked Marty.  
  
"Indeed," said Doc with some wistfulness. His keen dark eyes were still on Marty.  
  
"I had no idea you liked cooking," Marty offered. Doc wrenched his spindly fingers nervously.  
  
"I, uh, forget," he said, "to cook for myself. It always seems so unimportant. So many other things to do.  
  
"It's different when it's for a friend." He looked away, and Marty suddenly got the strangest urge to give his wild grey hair a gentle stroke. He almost reached out when he realized that his hands were greasy from the cheese.  
  
"You're going to eat, too," said Marty decisively, took another burrito, and shoved it into Doc's hands. "There, Doc, lemme." He reached around Doc's shoulders and began undoing the ridiculous flowery apron. "What are these, boating knots? Jesus."  
  
He pressed his chin against Doc's shoulder and stuck the tip of his tongue out in concentration. Finally the strings came loose, and the apron dropped to the couch.  
  
When Marty sat back to survey the result of his efforts, Doc's eyes were glistening, crinkled in a smile. Then he pulled Marty close, one arm sticking out to protect the burrito from getting squashed.  
  
That was new. Hugging Doc was normally a bit like hugging some sort of large awkward tree. Over the last year Marty had managed to get him to stop going rigid with surprise, at least, but the fact remained that Doc was - well, plainly, kind of endearingly bad at the whole hugging thing. Strong emotion had always seemed to make him lose all spatial orientation and any confidence he might've had about the position of his limbs. Certainly he'd never before initiated any hugs.  
  
Marty wasn't about to protest. He pressed his face firmly to Doc's collar and patted his shoulders, grease be damned.  
  
True, it was Doc who'd employed Marty, showed him exciting stuff, and, as it just turned out, cooked things and invited him for dinners. But Marty had something of an inkling that he wasn't the only one who'd benefitted from this friendship.  
  
"I'm right here," he promised, smiling into Doc's shoulder. "And ready for anything, starting with sauerkraut burritos."  
  
That made Doc laugh a bit, in a shaky sort of way. And as Marty held him, he reflected on the two things that had been proved to him that day: first, that nothing Doc did could ever be boring; and second, that cooking was about more than just food.

**Author's Note:**

> written for my awesome brilliant friend <3 I'll be your Marty, buddy. I'm here and ready for anything - even for your idea of borsch :D


End file.
